Photo by John Hoff Left to right, Kevin Gulden of Project Pride In Living, Jeff Skrenes of the Hawthorne
Neighborhood Association, and Brian, the reporter from Minn Post.
That tree might be the oldest one in the visionary "eco-village" area. It was probably alive when Native Americans lived in this area. Now the only Native American seen on the block is a prostitute named Kathy. (Somebody else identified her as "Lisa." A hooker using more than one name. Imagine that!)
Note the orange and black object to the left of Kevin. That is a parka, which somebody in the group identified as belonging to "Kathy's pimp." The building to the right is the scary little gang garage which...
...Jeff had boarded up before on his own private initiative. In fact, he took us to this location just to familiarize me with the problematic garage.
Practicing "Shell Recycling"
My recycling is fanatical and legendary, and right here was a little example of it. There was a busted fish aquarium tossed between the tree and the garage. I found three lovely sea shells amid the busted glass. I carried those shells in my backpack for a few days, until I could toss them in the Mississippi River from the Washington Ave. Bridge.
I've never met anybody else in the world who recycles sea shells, except those (like my son) who I have talked into participating. The act of recycling (or "guerrilla composting," or "water salvage," all to be discussed at other times) gives me a feeling of being purified and bathed in my spirit, a feeling I constantly seek out like some folks need to enter church and say "Hail Marys."
There's really no good way to recycle a pimp's discarded parka, however. When it's safe to get back in that area, I'll bag it up for trash. Eventually it will be burned and might make a few watts of electricity for people using the internet. I think that's the only way to "recycle" the dirt-caked parka of a homeless pimp.
Yeah, the pimp can't even keep a roof over his girl's head. Imagine the self-esteem issues she must be dealing with.
Pookie's Purloined Purse
Right before this tour of the neighborhood, an odd little episode happened with "Pookie's Purse." I'd found the purse inside the doorway of a brick house, the inside of the structure extensively gutted. No identification was left in the purse, nothing but remnants of cosmetics...and even this stuff had been dumped as the purse was ransacked in the doorway, eye shadow and nail polish and so forth fallen amid hunks of plaster rubble.
I gathered up what contents I could find and put these in the purse. I dumped the purse outside the building before I boarded it up. I had planned to show the purse to Brian during our little neighborhood tour.
However, fate intervened. It was known in the neighborhood (but not something I knew) how a home owner called "Pookie" had her purse stolen, ripped off from the interior of her own house. Pookie had yelled at "the corner boys," blamed them for the theft. (I found all this out through "Jane")
It turns out somebody connected to "the corner boys" was wandering around in one of the back yards (imagine that) spotted the purse where I left it, and figured it must have been Pookie's missing purse. They returned it to Pookie. It had no money, no identification, nothing of any real value...but perhaps Pookie felt the sense of violation lessened, slightly, by the return of the purse and at least some of its contents. I hope so.
I ended up speaking to Pookie in the street and explaining how I'd come to find her purse, and why I'd left it there like that. I was glad it had found its way back to her.
Poor Pookie! According to Jane, Pookie has reached her limit with the disorder in the neighborhood. She wants out. She wants to sell her house, and get out. Kevin and Jeff didn't appear happy to hear at as we went around with the Minn Post reporter.
Are You Looking For A Date?
I've been calling police about prostitution in the neighborhood. The prostitutes are brazen. They wave with both arms, like somebody marooned on a desert island might wave to a helicopter or a passing boat. Lyndale and 29th, 30th, 31st have been especially problematic, though the corner of 6th and 31st is equally popular...the only problem is who "owns" that turf? The drug dealers or the prostitutes?
They seem to know their own arrangements and boundaries.
I've called the police on three different prostitutes, all black females. Oh, wait. Four. I have to count "Shaneequa." Though I ran into Shaneequa again near the bus stop, and was told the name was actually Shah-FREAK-wah.
Yeah, whatever. I'm sure I had it right the first time, and the new pronunciation was just part of self-promotion.
On the same night I boarded up "415 31st" while the officer stood by and watched, a black female prostitute at 29th and Lyndale approached my passenger side while I was stopped at a light and asked, "Are you looking for a date?"
No, ma'am. No thank you.
I drove around and called it in to 911. When I came around the block and ended up at 31st and Lyndale, she was now on THAT corner. I tried to keep my cell phone out of sight.
"Did you change your mind?" she asked.
I must say, this is some of the most "customer-service attitude" I've seen on the North Side. Much better than the surly and paranoid thing.
"No," I said. "I'm just looking for an address, ma'am."
I called in her new location. Then, while boarding up 415 31st and talking to the officer, I said I'd be a witness to this, I'd fill out an affidavit about what was said.
"Unless she explicitly offered sex for money," the officer explained. "You can't get a conviction for that. Not in this state."
"I'm driving a rusty 1988 Celebrity and she walks up to my window!" I said, incredulous. "She asks me if I'm looking for a date! That's not enough proof?"
No, sir, it isn't.
A View From The Tree of Tomorrow
Look at the size of that tree! The old tree has seen a lot of changes in the neighborhood. It once looked out over a massive horse stables. It once looked out over a good, stable, wholesome neighborhood of church-goers with immigrant accents. The elderly woman who grows so many flowers is the last remnant of that era, at least in my "area of operations."
Kevin, Jeff and Peter (not pictured here) told me and Brian about the future they were trying to bring about, the visionary eco-village. We looked at the progress made so far--crappy old buildings knocked down, some of my minor efforts to "secure the block"--and it was like a parade, a parade of progress.
Things don't have to be bad and rough forever. In several years, this tree might be sitting in the middle of the fully-realized eco-village. The scary little gang garage will be just a memory, except where some parts of the foundation may remain in the ground, mingled with tree roots and undiscovered horse shoes from the former stable.
There will be a LOT of recycling in an "eco-village." I want to be in the middle of it, or very near with another piece of property. Maybe, instead of a smashed aquarium, there will be ornamental fish ponds. Instead of a scary gang garage, there will be a community center. We'll learn about the plants of this region--the stuff the Native Americans knew and ate--and make some nice fresh salads for ourselves.
This is the future we work for, together. This is why I pound nails into boards to secure the block. For what that tree might look upon ten or twenty years from now.
I think it's a cottonwood. The bark and the girth reminds me of a cottonwood. The Spanish word for a cottonwood is, of course, alamo.
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